


beetle.

by theholychesse



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Ed POV, M/M, POV Second Person, Violent Thoughts, ed has a crush. kinda. not really, ed is not a good man and he thinks of nasty things, homicidal urges, mention of animal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 07:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16990530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theholychesse/pseuds/theholychesse
Summary: Edmund Kemper, in the moments after Holden Ford collapses.(This work has been translated into Chinese! If you can, read it! http://cielo77.lofter.com/post/1d1cf9b8_1c6806815))





	beetle.

You sit.   
  
Is it just you, or do you hear his wheezes, all the way here?   
  
He must have crumpled, like a puppet with his strings cut. Holden Ford does not strike you as a man used to panic; No, he is all perfect, careful control, and above all else, you imagine that the idea of being brought so low, very, very figuratively—Ah, that'll burn at him. All of this, will burn at him. He is lying on the floor, perfectly shined shoes scuffing and straining against the floor, fragile chest hitching up and down rabbit-quick, panic making him taste metal in the back of his throat.   
  
You sit, hands neatly folded together, and a nurse trails an eye into your room, and gives you a glower she tries to hide by looking away.   
  
They can't blame you, not really. Dear Holden was already emotionally compromised before he got here—They can see it in the unbuttoned escape of skin and thin undershirt. They can see it in the slight untidy mess of his hair. They can see it in the sweat gathered at his underarms, sweat-sour and fragrant. At the circles of exhaustion, dark and ruddy, making his eyes sink, wild and terrified, into his skull.   
  
Even before you stood, terror was beating a steady song into him. He stank of it—Distant, denied animal-terror.   
  
You had stood, and he stood as well, chair screaming with the speed of it all. His shoulders were shaking, and his forearms tensed, even under his shirt. Tensed, stringy meat, unpalatable to the tongue, unlike the sheen of salty sweat that lingered at the places where such liquids came to gather. His twitching jaw, just barely beginning to show the signs of a neglected daily routine, cheeks shaking, teeth grinding and grinding and ghosting over each other inside of his hot wet maw.   
  
His eyes were red rimmed, his lids and the line of red that separates the white of his eye and the pale peach of his skin shining wet. Droplets gathered and shined off the sterile lights, a total contrast to the way your own eye sockets sank, and sank, and sank, dim holes of black that showed no light nor any human depth.   
  
You found him.. quaint.. Tiny, fragile, shaking like a little terrified pup under your gaze.   
  
You had missed this, you realized. You were always a danger—Your stature, your history, your certain bulk, allowed you nothing else. But this? Overt menace, pressing into a person's space? Why, it has been  _years._

His breath had hitched, when you'd crossed that distance between them. His breath had hitched, half-expectant that it would be his last. His breath had hitched, weeping at the edge of his voice. His breath had hitched, and you wondered how hot his blood could feel to your skin.   
  
When you had first met him, he was reptile-cool, or, tried to be so. There was something hot and mammalian there, almost certainly—But he was furiously trying to shove it deeper, to present a creature that was all composure and sure confidence. But even with gooey vulnerabilities wrapped thick around him, a secure blanket proclaiming humanity to nuzzle into, there was something there. Something cold, something that could stare, unshakably, into the heart of violence.   
  
No, you're wrong. Not unshakably. He would shake—If the spray of alien blood came over him. When. If. He would shake, from the tips of his digits up to his quivering brows, and he would wheeze, not unlike he was doing now, tucked in the arms of some cooing nurse—His eyes would be wet, and spit would shine on his lips, and he'd be warm and hungry. He'd feel the steam-hot heat of blood, and he would press a curious finger in, even as he shakes and shakes and shakes—And he would savour it. Savour the swipe of it, the press of it, against the swirls of his fingerprint, the hairs of his forearm.   
  
Organized, that is what he called you. He would want to be that. Organized. Collected. Wipe away all of the evidence, and then start anew, months in advance. But he wouldn't, not really. Holden Ford is all desperate emotions, thoughtless actions, impulsive decisions. He'd want to be organized, but as soon as he'd taste blood in his mouth, he won't be able to stop. He'll shake for it, moan for it, like it's a drug he can't stop taking.   
  
You had drawn close, and hugged him.   
  
And for one brilliant, wonderful moment, your friend had stayed, pressed between your superior mass and strength. Oh, you could absolutely tuck him close, fit him against you, slim bony maleness against the fleshy mountain of your body.   
  
He was your friend. And that is why you did not rip his head from his shapely neck, and make him your spirit wife. In your own little way, beyond your looming presence, your distant sexual menace, you had wanted to draw a friend close and comfort him.   
  
But Holden Ford would never see you as such. In many ways, the man was incapable of having them. You and him were childish and inexperienced with such social matters. When boys had friends, you had animals that you gutted with the kitchen knife and probed, cautiously, curiously, with your bare pudgy child-fingers. Maybe Holden Ford had such a propensity, too. You would not be surprised.   
  
You imagined precious little Holden Ford, a neat, groomed A+ plus student through and through, tucking his legs under him as he grasped a hissing and clawing cat in a hand that was bleeding from its protests. You imagined precious little Holden Ford, so unsure of himself, probing at the cat's belly, trying to find a sweet little tender spot to sink his teeth into, so to say. He would find little limbs, oh-so easy to break, and he'd want.   
  
Maybe he would. Maybe he'd even go all of the way, and take the little creature out of its misery. Or maybe he'll crumple, arms pulling towards him, cat scrambling off into the treeline, wheezing with his forehead in the dirt, turned asthmatic in his shame and worry and inwardly-directed fury.   
  
Holden Ford had grunted and wormed out of your grasp, to run, pained, terrified, out into the pale halls.   
  
There was a slim second, there, where you had purposefully loosened your grip, to let this skittish little animal go.   
  
You wonder, now, seated with your fat hands grasping one another, what a glorious world would open up had you held on, onto this quaking, beating buck.   
  
He would not scream, you're certain of it. No—He would be quiet. He would make these desperate little hitching noises, beating and pawing and grasping, but each time he'd find flesh or uniform his grip would slip, and he'd uselessly thrash instead.   
  
His eyes would bulge, pink and round, and his mouth would be pretty and open and gasping, salty tears slipping down and gathering at his chin. Or, rather, soaking your shirt. You a terribly tall man, after all, and he had felt so nice pressed up against you, warm and shivering and strange.   
  
You wonder, even now, your blood going hot at the thought, that it would have been like, drawing close and not reaching out for a soft hug, but for his head. Placing a hand at his jaw, and another at his shoulder. Wrenching his head back and back, while keeping the body steady, until his skin would rip open like paper and blood would spill forth, dark tissue yawning open.   
  
You wonder, even now, at the thoughtless ease you could have pushed him down against the bed that's been soaked in your own sweat and with bitter hospital sterility. You wonder, even now, how he would shake, how he would gasp uselessly for air, when faced with the threat of being made a woman.   
  
Holden Ford is girl-pretty, in many ways. It's in his lips, his little but expressive eyes, in his cheekbones. His hands are square, masculine, but they're so dainty, so petite, so uncalloused, that they might as well be a woman's. He is a man, undoubtedly—But he would be at home in the garb of a woman, strong thighs framed by a skirt or even the dark lines of lingerie.   
  
You would not kill a man, usually. But a woman? Even if she was a man wearing the clothes of one? Why, that is another story entirely.   
  
But, you do not think you want to kill Holden Ford. At least, not in the way you have killed before, which is but one of many ways to kill. You do not want to humiliate. To claim, yes, to steal, yes, but—  
  
But to soothe this horse, still shy of his bridle. To stroke this little beast into calmness, to take the anxiety, the worry, the constant thoughts and low-simmering paranoia you see in the whites of his eyes, and take it all away, and give him peace.   
  
A selfless kill, almost. A little unthinkable but—It's not a terrible way to go.   
  
You wonder, with your blood pooling down, how he'd unthinkingly arch, when your hand would slide to the small of his back. How'd his thighs part, unconsciously, when you would press a big knee between them. He would be pinned by you; Trapped. Danger and fear and terror would make him hard, make him pink. He has a pretty girlfriend, and he fucks regularly enough, unlike you—But under you, he'd writhe and moan and gasp and shake at the slightest of touches, at the ghosting of your finger over his cheekbone, the gentle pressure of it under his eyeball.   
  
He'll be so hard that it hurts, hurts him bad, when you press your thumb and index finger against the little notch above his Adam's apple, weight and heat and danger at his throat.   
  
He'd buck up, and blither, and make little weepy airy noises—A cute little thing, placed writhing and wanting and petrified in your hands, grinding and rutting and fucking and whimpering.   
  
You'd study him, much like a bug.   
  
You'd watch, eyes huge and blown behind your thick lens, and you'd study, much how he does to other killers, of a more inferior stock.    
  
He would find a perverse pleasure in your hand, in the web of skin between thumb and forefinger pressing down on his neck to the point he chokes. He would be weeping, mouth open and drool on his chin, when you'd have both hands on his throat, and gently wring the life out of him.   
  
You'd probably be able to fuck his maybe-dead mouth into rawness and bleeding softness by the time the guards would come back.   
  
It is not a displeasing image, but not overly pleasing, either. You do not have to wonder why. You are too fond of introspection to not.   
  
You sit, hands on your lap, and hope that he will visit again.   
  
You may want for many things, but above all else, you want for his gentle presence. He thinks himself a little yapping dog; A threat. He is anything but.   
  
You did not understand the concept of pets, for the longest time. Why keep a foul, smelling, shitting thing in your house that could only shed and then die? But now, you do. Holden Ford is your little pet dog, and you find a gentle, simple comfort in him.   
  
Maybe he is a friend. Maybe he is not.   
  
Regardless, you lie back on your bed, think of your mother's fourth fuck-hole, of Holden's tears and quivering voice, and of other such similar, sweet, pleasing things, and let these thoughts slip your consciousness away to slumber.   



End file.
